


Jenseits deiner Tür

by RC_McLachlan



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Introspection, M/M, No Beach Divorce, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 00:28:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2046087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RC_McLachlan/pseuds/RC_McLachlan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he is to be punished for his sins by a voyeuristic God, then greed is going right to the top of the list of his trespasses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jenseits deiner Tür

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as light-hearted victory rimming. I'm not entirely sure what happened.
> 
> A million and two thanks to my betas [Tigbit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tigbit/pseuds/tigbit), [Etharei](http://archiveofourown.org/users/etharei/pseuds/etharei), and [1ElectricPirate](http://archiveofourown.org/users/1electricpirate/pseuds/1electricpirate) for pulling this out of the fucking gutter and turning it into something presentable. Extra thanks to 1EP for helping with the German bits, because I speak precisely NO German.

After all is said and done, they win the day.

The missiles, each bearing the colors of two countries that love destruction more than they understand it, were sent to spill their fire into the open arms of the sky with a graceful wave of Erik's hand—and that had been that. Charles had felt no remorse in leaving Sebastian Shaw's corpse right where Erik had dropped it for the flies and crabs to tear asunder, but the propriety instilled in him from a young age still wondered if some sort of burial would have been kinder. Erik had had half a mind to rig Shaw's carcass onto the nose of the Blackbird, the way pirates in old stories used to do to mutineers and weaker foes, and leave it there until it was no more. Charles had muttered, "For God's sake, Erik," and drew the line at making the children strap a dead body to a plane.

The helmet was left to the mercy of the ocean.

After the phone calls to the CIA had been made, after a celebratory dinner of cheap wine and expensive ice cream and four extra seats added to the table, after they'd gone to bed—defiance in Raven's blue smile—and Moira had gone to her own room with a demand for as much coffee in the morning as a human being could tolerate…

After.

He'd be lying if he said he hadn't dreamt of the days following the acknowledgement of the existence of mutants. For years, his _after_ involved grand, sweeping speeches before world governments, his thesis on display at Bodleian Library, his name constantly followed by "at the forefront of genetics," and what other fancies his mind could conjure. But in recent days, his after began to warp, and petty fame faded in light of the family he'd pined for as a boy. The stupidly long table in the dining hall laden with huge meals, beloved faces laughing and joking with each other, all of them safe, all of them finally home; the air around the manor aloft with the laughter and shrieks of children, of plasma bursts and fairy wings; rooms cleared of moth-eaten furniture and filled with desks and the scratch of pencils on paper; his sister on one side, unafraid and unironically proud of who and what she is, and Erik, his equal and match, on the other, with no doors between them.

His after may have been utter dreck, a spot of fluff to take comfort in between training and chaste but charged chess games, but with the defeat of Shaw and the end of the missile debacle… it was probable dreck. Attainable. He could have it if he had the courage to reach out for it.

But even in his wildest imaginings, his after had never included anything like this: him, spread like a butterfly awaiting its pins while a handsome German licks him out.

"Oh god," Charles groans, rubbing the fever in his face on the sheets. He can't stop the strangled cry that punches out of him as Erik's fingers pull his hips up and spread him even further, the most humiliating exposure he's ever experienced. He can feel his hole contract, sopping wet and greedy for a tongue that is no longer there. "God, Erik—"

"'God,' Charles?" It's whispered against the dip at the small of his back, a dimple that an old girlfriend used to call sweet. It feels nothing of the sort, especially when Erik sinks his teeth into it and pulls gently, sending a startled frisson of pure lust up his spine. "You're a man of science, aren't you? Why bring God into it?"

Why, indeed. He doesn't remember anything like this in the _King James_. He doesn't remember anything like this anywhere. And to think he once believed himself so experienced in sex—that he and all of his bedfellows never once thought of anything like this says something about the sorry state of sexual education in this world.

As if in agreement, a sweet kiss is pressed against the ring of muscle, and Charles chokes on a cry, the air trapped in his throat by an invisible fist; all he is capable of is a shivery wheeze, his spit and shock leaving their mark on the linen.

"God wasn't on that beach today. We didn't need Him. Perhaps we never have. Are we not our own deities now?" Erik grins against him, lips reverent against his heated flesh, and he sweetly nuzzles the cheeks of his arse. "If He does exist, do you think He is watching?"

For a fleeting moment, Charles wonders what his Lord and Maker would think of such a display: legs and arse spread open and him whining like a whore, desperate to be touched. He burns as though filled with brimstone and hellfire, and Erik laughs rough and low as if it were dragged out of him. Hardly pious. Charles feels every vibration of it, but the physical isn't enough. He wants more. He always wants more, but he'd promised to wrangle his appetite. The door erected before that particular room is strong, forged through promises and sheer will, but his own wants still bang against it. If he is to be punished for his sins by a voyeuristic God, then greed is going right to the top of the list of his trespasses.

"Or perhaps He turns a blind eye to this _perversion_ in the wake of what we've done. We averted a war single-handedly, my friend; we have saved His earth from internal extermination. How proud He must be to let this slide without comment," Erik murmurs, and the puff of his words is felt right there, right where his hole is scrabbling for anything to breech it. A shudder wracks Charles so hard that Erik's hold on his hips tightens to steady him.

"Erik—"

"What do you think, Charles?"

He thinks he wants nothing more than to dip into that brilliant, brilliant head and get his fingers good and wet before slipping them inside himself to ease the way for Erik's fat cock. A groan tears out of him at the thought of Erik using his own cerebrospinal fluid to fuck him.

"My friend," Erik croons, and drags his thumb up over Charles's slick hole, which grasps hungrily for more of his touch. Charles's hips jerk and shudder, and Erik laughs. "You're so starved for it, aren't you? I wonder how that could be, with you bedding every willing man and woman from here to Oxford. Are you aware that Raven calls you the Transatlantic Love Machine? It’s certainly a much more interesting moniker than Professor X."

"I'd rather talk about God some more," Charles mutters into the sheets. He'd rather not talk at all.

"God _is_ all talk," Erik says.

"I don't know if He is watching, but you could probably make _me_ see _Him_ , though."

He can feel the warmth of Erik's amusement without actively listening. "That was terrible, Charles. Truly. A man with your intellect and power shouldn't have to rely on such shoddy lines."

"I'm naked with my arse in the air," Charles says dryly. "I think I've the right to use whatever I can to remind you to do something about it."

"You could make me."

"But I won't." The air has dried his skin, leaving him tight and uncomfortable, his cock weeping its dissatisfaction between his thighs. "I will, however, strongly suggest you possibly give thought to maybe touching me at a time in the near future that is convenient for you."

What should follow is witty rejoinder, the kind of banter they have fallen into since Charles wrapped him in a towel after pulling him from the sea. They speak so easily that it feels as though they've known each other for years instead of a short matter of months. He waits, face burning and feeling every ounce the fool with his arse still in the air, but a moment passes, then two, and nothing comes.

"Erik?"

"You're…" A spark of something just outside of reach snaps against Charles like a rubber band, and he flinches to feel Erik's frustration. "I never allowed myself to think past Shaw."

At that, Charles rolls over onto his back, stretching out with a glad groan. If this new, solemn tone is going to infiltrate whatever is happening between them, he’s going to be in a position to look Erik in the eye. "I fear you haven't allowed yourself many things, my friend. Things well within reach. Perhaps this might be a good time to, uh, slacken the reins, as it were."

Erik's tongue darts out to lick at his already slick mouth and Charles follows its movement, remembers what it felt like when it invaded his body and claimed him in the name of a man who clung to a terrible past and an even more terrible vendetta. He wants it on him, in him, in whatever capacity Erik sees fit.

"Perhaps," Erik agrees. Mouth pressed into a thin line, he crawls up the length of Charles body, sheltering it with his own, a scarred but lovely shield that Charles can't help but slide his palm up. Erik dips his head to press his mouth against Charles's shoulder, his neck, his collar bone, and Charles closes his eyes with a low exhale. "Are you in my head, Charles?"

"I'm not." It had nearly killed him to shut the door between them, stopper the air and connection that followed through it, but he'd done it because Erik had asked. If he didn't, the silverware would never so much as rattle at Westchester again. "I'm not, Erik, I swear to God."

"I thought we established that He has no place with us here, and yet you swear to Him?"

It hurts that even now, with Charles naked and vulnerable beneath him hours after helping him murder a man, Erik doesn't take him at his word. "I swear to _you_ , then. I'm not in your mind."

A hand, callused with the lingering kisses of pistol grips and knife handles, walks down slowly, dragging over the skin of his side, his hip, to where his right hand lies peacefully on the bed and captures it. With a gentleness Charles hadn't honestly thought Erik capable of, Erik lifts Charles's hand to his own temple even as he brushes their noses together, their mouths.

"Aren't you?"

The breath he'd been about to take stutters and stops, his lungs cramping, as Erik turns his face into Charles's palm and _pounds_ at the door erected between them. Charles coughs out his surprise and tries to turn and meet Erik's gaze, to make sure he understands just what it is he's doing, but Erik keeps their foreheads pressed together hard, as if they might be able to meld into each other by sheer force of will. The pads of Charles's fingers are alight in contact with Erik's temple, the brush of lips against the swell of his thenar, and it’s as if the thoughts he'd sworn to never touch have liquefied and begun seeping under the door.

"I only ask because my thoughts are soaked in you," Erik says quietly against the heel of his hand. "Every day feels like the first night. You're in my mind, everywhere."

 _Submerged, but safe_ , comes the whisper from beneath the door, the voice of angels created by an unwelcome God. _Drowning. Overwhelmed._

_Found._

The fingers of Erik's other hand reach up between them and press for entrance at Charles's mouth. He opens, helpless to do little else, and sucks them in, curls his tongue around them greedily—the way he does with sweets, the way Erik had done after spreading him wide. He imagines those fingers dipping between his skull and dura mater as he coats them thoroughly, and drools only a little when Erik slips them out to wrap around his  cock. It had grown weary of the shift in tone and lack of attention, but rouses easily at Erik's touch, slick with his spit and, if he pretends, cranial fluid. Charles breathes hard through his nose as Erik begins to stroke him lightly.

"I'm not sure why I'm surprised," Erik goes on, as if he were commenting on something mundane as the color of the sky. His fingers spider down Charles’s shaft and down to feather over his bollocks, and further still. "You never do what I ask. I should have known that by telling you to stay out you would take it as an invitation to lock yourself in."

"No, I—" Erik's fingers prod at him where he is still relaxed enough to crave it, hot and aching enough that he might beg for it if he's not careful. His hole gives sweetly around two fingers, and he moans. "For God's sake, Erik, I didn't—"

"But you did," Erik says. "I can feel you on either side of your door, Charles, one side begging for entrance and the other welcoming it in. Was this your intention all along—to make yourself at home in every part of me? What would you have done if I'd put Shaw's helmet on after all?"

It doesn't bear thinking about.

Erik's fingers slide in and out, thick, curling up to brush against a place that sets off an explosion of color behind Charles's eyes. Whining, Charles bucks into them in a sorry attempt to draw them in deeper, to speed the thrust of Erik's fingers into something a little less gentle. Something he'll feel in the days to come.

"So, what shall we do about it?" Erik inquires as he withdraws his fingers. Charles swears aloud at the loss and positively writhes against the sheets, against the steel of the door that barely keeps his greed in check.

He opens his mouth to protest, or perhaps be every bit the spoiled brat Erik seems to think he is and complain about being denied, but his voice leaves him when Erik sinks three fingers back into him, slick with spit and relentless where they push in and up, rubbing over that spot again and again until the world seems to crack and crumble around him.

This is not the after he'd imagined, perhaps because he lacks true imagination. This is fuller, loud and colorful and painful in all the best ways. The only way to better it further would be to tear down the barrier that quakes and groans at the pressure he's putting on his side; on the other side, there is an answering push.

"I am not in your mind," Charles gasps out as Erik's other hand releases Charles's where it's pressed to Erik's sweat-slicked temple. Long fingers flick at the air and something rattles within the nightstand on the left side of Charles's bed, the drawer forced open by a small, familiar tin. Amusement and lust and bright, fractious need murmur at him from beneath the door as the tin careens through the air to smack into Erik's palm.

"But you are," Erik says. The lid unscrews without a touch to guide it and Erik dips his fingers inside, coating them with oil.

Charles closes his eyes as he listens to Erik slick up his cock, the fingers inside him retreating to make way for something better. Bigger. "Oh, no, my friend, I'm not. I won't deny that I'm scratching to come in, but on the other side of that door? Its—"

Erik slides inside of him in one, easy glide, the puzzle piece of his hips slotting against Charles's arse as if it had been made to do so. Biting back the cry that wants out, Charles clenches around Erik's impossibly thick cock. It's huge and demanding, just like Erik himself, pushing its way inside with grace but little care. The fullness is almost too much and his body strives valiantly to accommodate it, but he can't breathe, can't think, can barely retain enough of himself to keep the door up where his mind slams against it.

"It's you," Charles whispers, head rolling back so far his neck may snap at the bend. He rocks down onto Erik's cock and then away, wanting the intrusion as much as he doesn't, and practically chokes on it as Erik gives an experimental thrust. It's so much. It feels like it's in his _throat_. "It's you. Oh god, please, Erik—open it."

" _Ich bin es nicht_ ,"  1  Erik grits out. He slides his arms under Charles's knees and hitches his legs up, sliding out so slowly so that Charles can feel every inch of him before slamming back in. " _Du bist es_." 2

A thin trickle of saliva works its way from the corner of his mouth and he reaches up to wipe it away, only to have his hand snatched and pulled above his head, pressed down into the sheets by his wrist. His other hand is soon to follow. Pinned.

The dribble from under the door becomes a fast leak; the frame creaks a warning, the bulk of it groaning under an immense pressure. Around it, beneath it, the foundation cracks. Rivets and nails and bolts and stone pop underneath the strain of holding back whatever rages on the other side of it, the thing for which Charles has been assigned the blame. It won't hold much longer. If they're to survive this, the door has to come down, and Charles can't be the one to do it.

"Erik—" It sounds like a sob. "Erik, open it. Let me in."

"You're already inside," Erik whispers and lurches forward, bending Charles in half, shoving in deeper to slide their mouths together. Charles opens up for Erik's tongue as easily as he did for his cock, takes it just as greedily, sucking at Erik's top lip and swiping his own tongue across a hundred teeth. He's skewered at both ends.

He struggles against Erik's hold on his wrists, breaking the kiss as he tilts his head back, which Erik takes as an invitation to suck at his expose neck, right over the pulse of the carotid. The door bloats.

"God," Erik chokes out.

"Don't bring Him back into this," Charles manages, and the roll of Erik's hips stutters as they laugh together, but there's nothing funny about this. "Erik—"

" _Ich kann nicht mehr_ , Charles." 3 It's ripped through Erik's teeth and bitten into the bruised skin of Charles's throat.

 _If we are to have an after_ , Charles thinks, wild and unchained, and he feels the moment Erik hears it in the jerk of his hips, cock grinding without mercy inside him, right there, right there, and Charles bites his lip so hard he tastes the blood that should have been shed on Cuban sand hours earlier. _If there's an after for us, there can't be closed doors. Erik, let me in—_

"Charles," Erik groans. His thrusts take on a desperate edge, his grip on Charles's wrist tightening to the point of pain.

_I jumped off a moving ship to save you. Let you into my home. Learned with you. Laughed with you. Rediscovered happiness with you, and murdered for you. Gave my body to you. Gave my after to you._

Something squeals and twists, rippling with want and sheer power. Maybe it's Charles, himself, contorting as his body races toward orgasm.

_Are you really going to deny me this, Erik?_

"Charles—"

Erik's thrusts stutter, then speed up, and Erik slips a hand between them to wrap around Charles's aching cock, the thumb rubbing with frightening surety under the swell of the head. The shock of his touch forces the bend of Charles's spine to an impossible extreme.

_Let me in._

If Charles believed in God—

But he doesn't. They're their own gods.

A pause, and then the bloated door blows apart, metal crushing wood and stone with deliberate intent, and there is nothing to stop the coming flood.

There isn't air enough that Charles can find when he comes messily between their bodies, mouth open and choking around a scream that can't escape, hot and endless over Erik's fist. He can feel himself spasm around Erik's cock, the helpless clench of him, covetous, grasping. Erik's mind is a veritable tempest—sound and color and the desperate, fraught taste of something that perhaps has been there since the moment Charles, treading water, looked a lost man in the eyes and promised him that he wasn't alone. He submerges himself in it; it closes over him, thick like syrup, smothering him, and then fades into a sweet ebb and flow that tastes of sunlight and lithium.

They have no use for doors now.

With a sob, Erik buries himself as far into Charles's body as he can and comes hard; if he concentrated, Charles could probably feel the phantom rush of heat inside him, but it'd be a footnote to the way Erik's regard for Charles feels like the breeze that comes after a summer storm—the air drops and relief whispers its away across every nerve ending in Charles's brain.

" _Gott_ ," Erik chokes out as he all but collapses on top of Charles. He catches himself with shaking arms and slowly, _slowly_ , pulls out, as though he's loathe to part them; he moves to roll away, but Charles reaches out and wraps his arms around Erik's neck and shoulders, bringing him down to where he wants to carry the weight.

"And you gave me grief for mentioning Him. If I didn't know better, I'd say you actually want Him in the room with us," Charles teases, playing with the hair at the nape of Erik's neck. Under the pads of his fingers, gooseflesh swells, and he smiles as Erik places soft, reverent kisses across the jut of his collarbone, the line of his shoulder.

"If only to rub it in His face," Erik says. The smugness rolling off of him in waves would no doubt bypass even the strongest mental shield, so Charles doesn't even bother.

"I don't think He would care." Humming, Charles closes his eyes. "Perhaps He would be happy for us."

"For fucking like heathens in His glorious presence?"

Charles smacks Erik in the back of the head, winning a wide grin against the place where his shoulder meets his neck. "For being the better men. We've changed history, Erik, you and I—all of us. We proved it today."

A string is plucked, its vibrations resonating within them, and they fracture into the men they were _hours ago, confined in garish suits hardly suitable for stopping a war, standing on hot sand and watching a garrison of death and destruction come in over the ocean like a storm. Erik lifts a hand to delay their deaths a little longer. The missiles shiver and turn under his thrall, returned to their masters with a spread of Erik's fingers._

_"Shaw may have killed my mother, but it was humans who rounded us up like chattel. It was humans who took our homes, our possessions, our names—it was humans who branded us for the crime of being who we are. I will not kowtow to them again. They are a blight that must be cured."_

_"If you do this, Erik, you'll be him! You will be Shaw, Erik; that will be what waits for you after this—you'll wear his helmet and finish his work and you will be no better than he was. Is that what you want? Is that what she would have wanted?"_

_"… And would you make me choose a different path, should I decide to walk this one?"_

_"You weren't created, Erik—not by him. Your choices, your destiny… those belong to you. Not me. But if you do this… I cannot—I will not—walk this path with you. I swear to God, Erik, you will walk it alone."_

_"I want you by my side, Charles."_

_"You said it yourself, Erik: We are the better men. Now is the time to prove it."_

With a grunt, Erik rolls off of him and onto his side, tucking Charles against him with an arm that still trembles from the day's many exertions.

"So, tell me," Erik murmurs against Charles's hair. "What would you say if you looked over and saw His Holiness standing at the foot of this bed?"

An old breath joins the post-storm wind that sweeps through the ingresses of them both, echoing as if spoken aloud in an empty hall, tempered by the wonder and hope that had been felt at their utterance days ago. The red of Erik's anger and fear has dissolved the way a wafer might on the tongue, leaving behind the sort of stillness of which Charles has only dreamed.

True peace. They've finally found it.

Charles nudges his chin up and, a doorless future yawning before them, whispers against Erik's lips, "I'll tell you after."

 

"It's not me." 1  
"It's you." 2  
"I can't, Charles." 3


End file.
